


"So, How Are You Doing These Days?"

by WeWillForeverBeYoung



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Study in Pink Spoilers, Angst, Emotional Sherlock, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Parental Greg, Pre-Canon, Pre-Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Protective Greg, Suicidal Thoughts, Understanding Greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-06-08 22:41:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6876976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeWillForeverBeYoung/pseuds/WeWillForeverBeYoung
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based off of a deleted scene from "A Study in Pink" that I found on Tumblr. (The link to the source is inside). </p><p>Sherlock has found himself in a dark place and has called upon Greg to help him. </p><p>Contains suicidal themes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone.  
> I hope you enjoy this little angsty thing that I came up with.  
> Please heed the warning in the description of the story.  
> I do not own BBC Sherlock.  
> My apologies for any mistakes.  
> -WeWillForeverBeYoung

**_Greg: “Okay. What am I getting wrong this time?”_ **

**_Sherlock: “No notes. No prior sign. Each of them in a strange location that means nothing to them where they’ve never gone before… That’s not how I’d kill myself.”_ **

**_Greg: “… So. How are you doing these days?”_ **

**Deleted Scene from _A Study in Pink._**

**Source: http://nixxie-fic.tumblr.com/post/101953132273/0713-deleted-scenes-from-the-sherlock**

~

Greg Lestrade tossed the empty paper cup into the small garbage bin, having finished up his third cup of coffee for the evening. The corners of the nicotine patch on his left arm were beginning to separate themselves from his flesh, and they rubbed against his sleeve every time he moved his arm. With caffeine-jittered hands, he rolled up his sleeve, ripped off the rest of the nicotine patch, and threw the used patch away as well.

With a heavy, exhausted sigh, Greg sat down in his office chair and began to spin back and forth, catching his foot on the sides of his desk to keep himself from spinning all the way around. He gazed disdainfully at the top of his desk. There was a stack of paperwork that had to be filled out before he could be released from his cage and was allowed to return home for the night. There were five texts in his inbox, each one from his crazy ex-wife in regards to the fact that he had missed his son’s football game the week before due to the McAughlive case. There was a migraine developing behind his right eye. Since he was practically the only person in the department who was still there, he pounded his fists against the wooden finish in an attempt to ease his frustration in the quickest way possible before setting out to tackle the problems that could be fixed promptly.

He pressed the home button on his iPhone, opened his text thread inbox, and began to read the messages Carla had sent him out of her rage (albeit righteous, but not entirely justified given the terms of his employment with the Yard, that Roger was alright with his father missing a game or two if it was for work-related reasons, and that they had both agreed at the end of their last argument that Greg’s absence was always for work and Carla should have understood that by now). After skimming through the first three, he decided that the flames of fury he was facing would not grow hotter if he waited to respond to them, so he picked up his pen and grabbed the first paper on the top of the stack. He dismissed his headache, knowing that he had worked through much worse.

Before he could even open the cap, his mobile buzzed.

“Ugh.” Greg dropped the pen and rubbed his eyes. “What does she want now?”

He picked up his mobile, and much to his surprise, the person who texted him was not his wife.

_Greg, please. I need your help. –SH_

He stood up abruptly, causing his chair to fly out from underneath him and spin away from the desk.

_Don’t bring anyone else. Just come to Baker Street. –SH_

His subconscious had allowed him to go through the fluid motions of putting on his coat.

_I don’t know who else to turn to. –SH_

_Hey, it’s alright. I’m on my way. –GL_

Greg had made it all the way to his car before he got another reply.

_Thank you. –SH_

~

Greg had no idea what sight he was going to be faced with when he walked up the seventeen stairs to Sherlock’s flat. Though Sherlock had only been living there about a month, and had undergone several failed attempts at sharing the flat with other human beings, the consulting detective had dragged Greg out to his flat many times prior due to trivial reasons, and a part of Greg wanted that to happen again tonight mainly so he could ease his worries for the younger man. Sherlock’s texts had not exactly eased the stress upon his mind. When he saw the door was slightly ajar and heard muffled sobbing noises emerging form the flat, he knew that that was not going to be the case tonight. Though he was glad he had fought the urge to bring more support despite Sherlock’s objection.

“Sherlock?” he called as he pushed the door open the rest of the way. It creaked on his hinges as it slid into place against the adjacent wall. “Sherlock!”

He proceeded to walk into the center of the sitting room, which was devoid of any Holmes activity. He listened intently for the sobbing, and once he discovered that the door to Sherlock’s room was also ajar, Greg made haste in approaching it.

“Sherlock, you in here?”

He entered the younger man’s bedroom to be met with a grim sight- something that took all of his willpower to behold, for even all of his years working for the Yard had not hardened him enough to remain completely resolute at what lay before him. And yet it was a sight that he had seen many times before, in different variations. Sherlock was sitting on the edge of his bed in a pair of sweats, a t-shirt, and a dressing gown. His face was in his hands while his shuddering shoulders gave a signal as to what was happening beneath his palms. He sniffled before looking up at Greg with puffy, red eyes. Beside the consulting detective among the disheveled sheets lay his mobile. There was something bulky and metal on Sherlock’s lap.

“Take it,” Sherlock croaked out before picking up the gun slowly from his lap and setting it aside on the bed.

“Alright, alright. I’ve got it.”

“Dammit,” Sherlock said beneath his breath. He buried his face in his hands again.

Greg sat down beside the younger man and placed one hand on his back. “I’m glad you called me.”

Sherlock bit his top lip and nodded before dropping his hands and directing his gaze directed towards the far wall. He sniffled, snot pouring from his nostrils from his sobbing fit.  Greg slowly moved his hand onto Sherlock’s shoulder.

“How about- How about you and I go into the sitting room and talk for a bit, yeah? You up to that?”

Sherlock grimaced and nodded, his bottom lip quivering and his eyes growing glossy with yet more tears. Greg got off the bed and offered Sherlock a hand, which he silently took. Greg led the disheveled younger man into the sitting room with one arm wrapped around him.

“How ‘bout we sit on the sofa? That alright with you?”

A nod. The two men approached and fell unceremoniously onto the sofa in the middle of the sitting room.  Sherlock immediately slunk away to the corner of the sofa and nestled against the arm rest. He found that he couldn’t lift his head to meet Greg’s eyes.

“Sherlock.”

No response.

“I meant what I said a few moments ago. You made a really good choice calling me, you know.”

…

“I know.”

“Is- Is there anything you want to talk about?”

“You won’t stop pestering me into talking to you until I finally give in to your request. You’re even planning on extracting me from this wretched place and bringing me home to your flat. There’s plenty of space anyway. Your wife has the kids this weekend.” Sherlock took a peek at Greg before averting his eyes again. “She’s livid. Because you missed something. Something important. Something to do with your kids… Your son…?”

“You’re right, as always, Sherlock.” Greg offered him a reassuring smile, which he was not sure that Sherlock could even see. “But deducing me isn’t going to get you out of talking to me, or even coming to my place for a few days.”

“Well, maybe I have nothing to say.”

“I doubt that.”

…

A few moments of silence.

“Sherlock? You still there?”

“Mmph.”

“Good. Now, can I ask you a question?”

Sherlock lifted his head up to look at Greg. Water had collected on top of his cheeks. He had been silently crying into the arm of the sofa. He studied Greg for a few moments, seemingly perplexed.

“What?”

“Why did you decide to call me?”

Sherlock lowered himself back into the corner of the couch, though he let his face remain in the open.

“I- I thought that maybe I should, well, call someone. I had a brief moment of clarity, and I looked to my mobile, and you were the only option that I had.”

“Okay.” Greg watched his tone. He didn’t want to sound condescending. He wanted Sherlock to view him as understanding- as understanding as Greg had tried to be many times before. Greg wanted to understand. “Still, you made the right decision. Did something recently, I don’t know, spur this on? Anything… stressful?”

“Nothing more than what I usually endure.”

“What do you usually have the endure, Sherlock?”

He shook his head.

“Sherlock, please. I’m just- “Greg stopped himself. “Okay, scratch that. You don’t have to tell me anything that you don’t want to, but we _have_ to talk about this. Do you- do you know why you wanted to take your own life?”

Sherlock nodded and sniffled. “I do know why.”

Greg kept quiet, hoping Sherlock would take it as an invitation to continue- if he wanted to continue. Greg hoped he would.

“I just got so tired of having to deal with everything.”

“What have you been having to deal with, Sherlock?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Alright. It’s alright. Don’t feel pressured to say anything. I’ll let you do some things on your own terms.” Greg had a feeling Sherlock was going to shut down as soon as he initiated the conversation, but he was glad that he was able to get a few words out of Sherlock. “Just remember, I have no clue what’s going on inside of your head. If you don’t let me know what’s going on, I can’t help you. And that’s why you called me, right? You wanted me to help you?”

Sherlock nodded and swallowed the lump in his throat that had grown in size from his sobbing. “Yes.”

“Can I ask you something else? Out of my own curiosity?” He waited until Sherlock gave him a sign that he could. “You said that I was your only option to reach out to. Why is that?”

Sherlock pressed his lips together to prevent a drop of snot from falling into his mouth. He then lifted his arm enough so that he could use his dressing gown sleeve to wipe the snot from his upper lip. “You’re the only one that I knew would drop everything and come.”

Greg looked at Sherlock for a moment in sympathetic disbelief. “Sherlock… You can’t mean…” He stopped himself before he began to sound too patronizing. He couldn’t be too careful with Sherlock in such a vulnerable state. “Well, you’ve obviously got someone who’s willing to come and help you, right? You’ve got me. You’ve got some support. I’m willing to lead you through this.”

Sherlock’s gaze fell further away from where Greg was sitting. “I’m glad you actually bothered with me.”

_I am too._ Greg sighed, figuring he shouldn’t press any further, though he sincerely wanted to.  “Hey, if you’re feeling up to it, how about you and I hang out at my flat for a few days, eh? You already know the wife’s not there. It’ll just be us. I could do to take a few vacation days, anyway.”

“I don’t really have a choice in the matter, do I?”

Greg smiled sadly. “No. I’m afraid, at this point, I can’t really give you one, Sherlock.”

He reached out and put his hand beneath Sherlock’s wet chin. He then guided Sherlock’s head up.

“Sherlock, look at me.”

Sherlock obeyed.

“I’m not going to take you to a hospital. I’m not even going to tell your brother about this, if you don’t want me to.” A bold move, Greg knew that much. However, it was probably one of few things that, at this time, could help him secure Sherlock’s trust in him even more. “But when you’re at my flat, we’re going to come up with a plan to help you, okay? And when we do, and I feel it’s safe enough for you to leave, I’ll let you. Deal?”

Sherlock watched Greg carefully, his eyes darting to the left and to the right as he studied Greg’s face, trying to deduce Greg’s motives. “Okay,” he whispered.

Greg removed his hand from Sherlock’s chin. “I could help you get a bag ready.”

“That’s not optional either.”

“Well, you’re right. I have to watch what you’re putting in the bag. You know that. But, it’s also something I’m doing out of common courtesy.” Greg stood and helped Sherlock stand up as well. “Besides, it’ll make your packing a lot easier if two people are doing it, eh?”

“I suppose, Sherlock replied.

“Right, then let’s jump to it.”

Greg and Sherlock walked back into Sherlock’s bedroom, Sherlock walking before Greg with his head bowed slightly. Sherlock went into his closet and brought out a small, black, leather overnight bag. He then proceeded to open it up and remove the plastic toilette totes he had left inside the bag from a case that he had solved three months ago which had required that he visit Paris for an extended amount of time.

“You’ll want some of your suits, right?” Greg suggested. “Might want to get a bigger suitcase or at least a suit cover.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t want to wear suits when I’m at your flat.” He went back into his closet and came out with four pairs of sweats and proceeded to take them off of their respective hangers. “These will do just fine. I’ll be decent enough.”

“Alright, then.” Greg watched as Sherlock went back into his closet. “How about I go and get your toothbrush and things of that nature?”

“Of course. I won’t stop you,” came the response from the closet.

Greg, having the okay from Sherlock, went into the bathroom and turned on the light. His first initial thoughts were to grab Sherlock’s toothbrush, toothpaste, and after a little deliberation, his floss. He then went about making decisions on items that could be perverted more simply into lethal objects. Seeing that there was not much shampoo, conditioner, and body wash left in their bottles, certainly not enough for Sherlock to poison himself with, let alone throw up if he dared to swallow it, Greg added them to his pile. He opted out of the deodorant, justifying it to himself that Sherlock would smell fine if he just took a shower every morning and that Greg had probably smelt worse than Sherlock’s natural scent. The razor was certainly not coming with Sherlock, and since there would be no need for the razor, the shaving cream and aftershave gel need not come with.

Greg excited the bathroom with those items, and resolved to clean out his own bathroom- hell, all areas of his flat before letting Sherlock actually get settled there.

Sherlock was standing over his bag, which was now filled with sweats, athletic tops, socks, and pants.

“Got everything you think you need?” Greg asked.

Sherlock nodded.

 “Mind if I check the bag?”

No reply. Greg took hold of one of the bag’s straps and slid it over to himself. He poked through all of the clothes that Sherlock had put in the bag. Finding nothing, Greg put the clothes back the way he found them, put the toiletries that he had taken from the bathroom in the plastic totes, and then put the tote in the bag.

“Do you want to get your violin?” Greg asked as he zipped up the leather bag. “Or maybe your skull? You can take both if you want. I don’t mind.”

“I’d like to have them with me.”

“Well, then by all means, go and get them.”

Instead of leaving to go and fetch his violin and skull, Sherlock simply remained standing before the bed, his fingers absentmindedly tracing over the stitches in the duvet.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

Greg looked at Sherlock a little more closely, and he noticed small beads of water collecting on Sherlock’s lower eyelids.

“Why are you crying? There’s no reason to cry.”

At that, Sherlock’s face contorted into the same crying face that Greg had seen on him.

“Oh, come here.”

He held his arms out, and without Greg having to pull him into a hug, Sherlock leaned against his chest himself and started to sob again.

“What’s got you all worked up?”

“I-I-I hate this.”

“Oh, Sherlock. I know you do. And I don’t like it any more than you do. But we have to do this.”

“I know. And- and-and that’s why I h- HATE IT!”

Greg wrapped his arms around him tighter.

“I c-c-can’t do this!” Sherlock erupted into hiccups.

“Yes, you can,” Greg replied.

“No! No I can’t! I don’t want to this! I want to be left alone!” Sherlock was practically pressing his face into Greg’s chest as he talked, his sobbing causing Greg to have to steady his feet to avoid being knocked over by the sheer emotion that had driven Sherlock to fall apart.

“Greg… I don’t know what’s happening. And I’m terrified.”

“It’s okay to admit that,” Greg replied. “Hey, you know what? I’m pretty scared too.”

Greg held on to Sherlock until he finally started to calm down.

“There. Bet you feel much better now, eh?”

Sherlock removed himself from Greg’s chest, revealing more salt streaks then there were before and even puffier red eyes. He looked at the floor and nodded.

“How about we go and get your skull and violin now?”

~

The ride to Greg’s flat was quiet. Sherlock sat in the passenger side and stared out of the window. When Greg stopped at a stoplight, or was on a quiet enough street that he could afford to take his attention off of the road, he turned and looked at the younger man.

He looked so… broken. This wasn’t the young, head-strong consulting detective that Greg had seen saunter around crime scenes many times before. This was… this was the young man Greg had to dig out of the drug dens in the seedy parts of town. This was the man whom Greg had to lead out of withdrawal many times per Mycroft’s request.

It hurt him to see Sherlock like this. He had to admit that, over time, Sherlock had become almost like a son to him. And sometimes, Greg couldn’t help but see bits and pieces of himself inside Sherlock. Sometimes, when Sherlock would go around crime scenes, examining the body and spouting off his deductions, Greg felt reminded of what he was like when he first joined the force. When he was young and determined. When his family was together. When he was living a relatively normal life.

_Well, I have Sherlock to thank for my life not being normal._ Greg looked upon Sherlock again. _But then again, it’s good to be abnormal. Abnormal is…_ Greg turned back to the road, reminded of the things that he had heard being said to Sherlock over the years. _Frowned upon. Cast out._

_But by God,_ Greg thought to himself. _Nothing is going to take this brilliant, abnormal kid away from us. Not if I have any say in it._


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone. Sorry I was a little slow in getting part two out to you guys. I have a lot of work to do right now at this time of year, so I've been occupied with that.  
> But, nonetheless, I have part two!  
> Please heed the massive trigger warning for suicidal themes.  
> If you feel comfortable reading it, I hope you enjoy this update.  
> My apologies for any mistakes I might have missed.  
> I do not own BBC Sherlock.  
> -WeWillForeverBeYoung

Greg unlocked the front door to his flat and moved aside to allow Sherlock to walk inside first. Sherlock walked forward, looking around the foyer suspiciously, as if he had never seen it before. Greg followed him, carrying the carry-on bag that Sherlock had packed earlier, as well as Sherlock’s violin case and a Tescos bag tightly wrapped around the skull.

“Right, it’s going to be midnight soon. How about we go ahead and get you settled for the night, eh?”

Sherlock turned and looked at Greg before turning back around and walking into the kitchen.

“Yeah. Knew you weren’t into sleeping and all that.” Greg set Sherlock’s belongings in the foyer and followed Sherlock once more into the kitchen. He found Sherlock leaning against the counter, his arms crossed across his chest. “Hungry? Care for some tea?”

Sherlock shook his head.

Greg sighed and put his hands on his hips. “Care for some telly? I don’t know if anything’s on right now that would interest you, but we could at least look through the channels?”

Sherlock shook his head again.

“Well then. Do you want to… try talking again? We could sit on my couch. It’s a lot more comfortable than the one you have in your flat, that’s for sure.”

Sherlock swallowed the spit that had gathered in his mouth, his Adam’s apple bobbing up-and-down sharply. “I- I don’t want to. Not now.”

“What do you want to do, Sherlock?”

The younger man glanced in the direction of the foyer and then at the bowl of bananas on the kitchen island before him. “I’d like to play, if you’ll let me.”

“Oh! Your violin. Yes. Of course you can play it. Just, uh… nothing too loud or screechy. Don’t want to wake the neighbors.”

Sherlock nodded in thanks before almost galloping into the foyer, grabbing his violin case, proceeding into the sitting room, flinging open the case, and rosining his bow. Greg watched an enthusiastic (and somewhat desperate) Sherlock go about these tasks with his breath held, his mind racing to remember where all of the potentially dangerous items in his flat were. A few moments after Sherlock had begun to play, and Greg was sure that Sherlock had become absorbed in the music that he was playing, Greg set about making his place the safest place possible for Sherlock- other than a hospital.

He was already in the kitchen, so he made quick work of hiding the sharper cooking utensils, occasionally looking back towards the adjacent sitting room to see if Sherlock was watching him. He figured that the younger man was already aware of what he was doing, and he figured that Sherlock would understand the thought process that Greg was using to warrant doing a thorough “clean-up” of his flat, but Greg still didn’t want Sherlock to see him in the action of making the flat safer. Greg knew that the younger man was, above all else, stubborn when it came to many things, including his life and health, and Greg didn’t want to upset the man.

Once the kitchen had been cleared, Greg went into the main bathroom, removing the medication in the medicine cabinet. There were no other harmful chemicals, razors, or objects in that bathroom, so Greg moved on to his own bathroom and deposited the medicine he was holding in there. Sherlock would not have any reason to use Greg’s bathroom, nor go in Greg’s bedroom, so there would have been no need for Greg to sort through the objects there. After all, Greg would be watching Sherlock for the greater majority of his stay in the flat, and he would make sure that he didn’t go anywhere near his bedroom or bathroom.

As Greg re-entered the sitting room, the music began to stutter. The notes were not coming as smoothly out of Sherlock’s violin as they had been, and Greg noticed Sherlock’s hand was trembling, causing the bow to shake along with it.

“Sherlock. Sherlock!”

Sherlock stopped playing with a start.

“You alright there?”

Sherlock turned around to face him.

“I-I was just- “He stopped and shut his eyes, trying to regain his composure. “I was having trouble remembering what came next in the piece. It- it was one of the first ones I ever composed, and it was difficult for me to differentiate different parts of the piece without getting confused with some of the other works that I had composed at that time.”

 _Right._ “Ah. Well, if you’ve got a free moment, we can take your stuff and get you set up in the sitting room.”

…

“I’m sleeping in the sitting room?”

“Yes, you are,” Greg replied. “That way, I can keep an eye on you. You can sleep on the sofa. I told you, it’s really comfortable. I’ll be sleeping in the retractable arm chair over there.” Greg held his hands up slightly in defense, knowing that more objections were forming in Sherlock’s head. “Look, you’ll have easy access to the kitchen and the flat screen. I’ll get some blankets and some pillows, and once we get the couch sleep-ready, you’ll be just as comfortable on the sofa as you would be on an ordinary bed.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Dull.”

“It’s either this, Sherlock, or I allow Mycroft to section you.”

“Oh, please.”

“Sherlock, you know I will. It’s going to be much better here than it would be in a ward. You know that.”

That caused the consulting detective to grimace.

“I’m allowing you a lot of freedom,” Greg continued. He sat down on the arm of the sofa. “Because I know you won’t cooperate any other way.”

“I’m aware.” Sherlock picked up the white handkerchief that had been sitting in his violin case. “You had better go and get the blankets.”

~

Greg and Sherlock had settled down into their respective places on the sofa and the arm chair. Sherlock had wrapped himself into a cocoon of blankets and had turned over away from the telly- the only source of light in the room. Greg presumed that he had fallen asleep- a rare occasion for Sherlock, but not at all unlikely, given that he was probably exhausted from the day’s events- and watched the paid programming on the television.

No matter how hard he tried to concentrate on the _“revolutionary vacuum device that’s being offered_ _to you_ _for four easy payments of nineteen-ninety-nine,”_ Greg’s attention would always go back to the younger man. He looked so peaceful as he laid there, his body rising and falling softly with each breath. It was almost as though the evening had never even happened, and Sherlock was just taking a small nap upon Greg’s couch, and there was nothing out of place in their worlds, or their minds, whatsoever.

Greg held on to that thought for a moment, but then let it go. It was nice to think that everything that Sherlock was battling could easily be erased. Yes.

 _But that never happens._ Greg began looking through the channel guide, hoping that perhaps there was something he could watch other than paid spokespeople and product demonstrations. _We never get to have absolute peace in this world easily, do we?_

…

“…Lestrade.”

Greg jerked awake and looked around the room frantically, finding Sherlock sitting upright in the middle of the sofa staring at him.

“Sherlock. Ugh. Sorry, I must’ve dozed off. What’s wrong?”

“I-I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking,” Sherlock replied. “I couldn’t get my brain to slow down by myself.”

“Are you having thoughts?”

“Somewhat.” Sherlock’s voice was low. “It happens now and again.”

“How often does it happen? During a regular frame of time?”

Sherlock shook his head, but answered regardless. “Once a week. Sometimes more.”

“Does… does anyone else know? About this?”

“Mycroft does, of course. He can suspect when I might- “he trailed off. “But no. No one else knows.”

“Have you considering talking to someone about this? I mean, someone who’s trained to help you with this?”

Sherlock looked down at one of the blankets covering the sofa. “They wouldn’t be successful. I would have no basis to trust them, since saying I have intentions to end my own life would inevitably result in me getting sectioned. There would be no reason for me to disclose myself to them. And I think they would view me as a dollar sign. They would be eager to put me through treatment so they could make more money. They wouldn’t be an end to the therapies and medications they would want to put me through.”

“You sound like you’ve been through that before.”

Sherlock picked up the blanket that he was looking at and wrapped it around him. “Yes,” he answered in a low voice. “Too many times. I’ve grown weary of the cycle.”

“Were you allowed to choose the psychiatrist? Or did Mycroft choose them for you?”

“When I wasn’t put in a hospital, Mycroft did choose them for me.” Sherlock looked down into his lap. “I hated both instances.”

“Well, maybe that’s your problem, Sherlock. You haven’t had a say in who in you’re seeing. When you’re out of the hospital, you should be seeing one that you’re comfortable with.”

“I can’t ‘be comfortable’ with anyone.”

“Sherlock, you know that’s not true.”

“Yes, it is, in fact, true. I can’t talk to people about… these types of things.”

“But you’re talking to me about this,” Greg pointed out.

“That’s different.” Sherlock glared at him.

“How so?”

“I feel… safe talking to you. You aren’t judgmental, like other ordinary people tend to be. You aren’t looking to put a label on my mental condition and ship me off to a treatment center, pump me full of anti-depressants, or demand that I come back and talk to you in therapy week after week about the same topics.” Sherlock looked down into his lap. “You just…listen.” He looked back up at Greg. “And there’s a portion of your brain that actually contains some amount of tangible intelligence, Lestrade.”

Greg laughed softly. “Well, don’t I feel flattered to have you say that about me,” he said in a sarcastic yet playful tone. The grin that had settled on his mouth from his laughter faded, and his serious yet sympathetic expression was restored. “Do you think that your experiences with psychiatrists and other people have led you to be so closed-off?”

“I know the experiences that I’ve had with you have led me to at least feel comfortable opening up to you,” Sherlock replied. “You’ve seen me in worse conditions. Even more horrible than this.”

Greg nodded. “You’re right. I have.”

A pregnant silence immediately followed- a sign that they were both reflecting upon the same incidents. Over the four years that both Sherlock and Greg had known each other, Greg had sat by his hospital bedside during multiple overdoses, had assisted the young man through two harsh periods of drug withdrawal, and had both convinced and personally escorted Sherlock to the only rehabilitation center that met all of Sherlock’s standards (per request of Mycroft, who wanted to avoid any confrontation with his younger brother, as that would have put a damper on the plan to get him into a facility).

“Do you think there’s any hope for me?” Sherlock asked, breaking the silence.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Greg asked back.

“Do you think I’m ever going to be able to live normally? Or am I going to be this way for the rest of my life?” Sherlock’s voice was downtrodden. Sherlock _was_ downtrodden.

“It sounds to me like you’re giving up.”

“We both wouldn’t be sitting in your living room right now if I wasn’t giving up.”

Greg leaned back into his chair, the metal springs creaking from the sudden pressure. “I think you could be amazing. Scratch that. I think you are amazing. I think that you’ve got an astounding amount of potential. You could do whatever you wanted to do with your life, and I think you’d excel at it. But I also think that you let a lot of things get to you that you really shouldn’t, and I think that if you trusted more people and let them have bigger roles in your life, you’d have more people to fall back on when it does get this far.”

“I feel so alone…” Sherlock admitted in agreement with Greg. “I really don’t know why I feel this way, or what I should do to stop it.”

“I have faith in you,” Greg continued. “I may not always show it, because sometimes you can be a real prick, but I do have faith in you. You can get out of this hole that you’ve found yourself in.”

Sherlock’s bottom lip began to tremble. The light from the television was absorbed by the water that had begun to collect in Sherlock’s eyes. “I don’t think I’ll ever be anything different.”

“Ah.” Greg shook his head. “And that’s the problem. You don’t have faith in yourself. For all of the confidence you have in your abilities, you don’t have confidence in yourself. That’s something that you are going to have to work on for the betterment of you alone. You won’t live any differently from what you are now unless you decide to live differently and make the changes that are necessary for you to get better.”

Sherlock nodded, wading the end of the blanket wrapped around his shoulders and using it to wipe his cheeks. “I don’t want to keep living in sadness. I want to live differently from what I do now.”

“Good,” Greg said, nodding. “Good,” Greg repeated, though much more softly. “Can I ask you just one more thing, Sherlock?”

Sherlock sniffled but did nothing in opposition.

“What finally pushed you to this? Did something set you off?”

“It was a culmination of things,” Sherlock answered. “But I suppose what really drove me to this point was that my new flat mate left. It was the third time I had failed to keep a flat mate in the past two weeks. I kept thinking about how freakish they thought I was- how virtually everyone thought I was, and I thought it would be best for everyone, including me, if I just… well, you know.”

“Ending your own life is never the answer, Sherlock.”

“I know it’s not. But, I just couldn’t take it anymore. I just wanted it to be final. I wanted there to be no way that modern medicine could bring me back, so I opted for my gun. And then I remembered that you had offered to come and help me if I was in any danger, so I texted you. If you hadn’t have come, I most likely would have done it.”

Greg sighed, knowing how awful the situation would have been if he had not been able to respond to Sherlock, as well as how hard it must have been for Sherlock to admit that. Before he could think about what he was doing, Greg slowly got up from his chair, walked over to the sofa, sat down next to Sherlock, and wrapped his arms around him. Sherlock rested his head against Greg’s shoulder.

“I don’t want you dead, Sherlock,” Greg whispered. “Quite a few other people feel the same way, Sherlock. Your parents do. Your brother does, even though he might not show it. Mrs. Hudson does, and you would have given her a heart attack had she discovered you. You know that? And I know for a fact that Molly, the pathologist you work with, cares about you. We were talking just the other day, and when I mentioned you, her face lit up. I know you may not like her the way she likes you, but I know you care about her enough that you wouldn’t want to hurt her the way your death would. If you feel that the normal route of psychology isn’t going to work for you, then come to us. We know you more than anyone else on this planet. And I know we all would listen to whatever you had to say.

“And don’t worry about the flat mate situation,” he continued. “Some people can’t stand eccentricity. And that’s fine. But I know that one day, you’ll find someone else who’ll be able to appreciate you. You just have to keep looking. That soul will turn up eventually.”

“Do you really think so?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, Sherlock. I do.”

~

A few weeks later, after Greg had let Sherlock go home, and his life had been returned to normal, Greg called in Sherlock to deal with a case involving serial suicides- a bit of an ironic case to consult Sherlock on, given the circumstances of their last encounter, but since Greg and his team were almost at their wit’s end, and since there had been a fourth suicide since the dreaded press conference on the case, Greg had no choice but to bring in Sherlock’s expertise.

Sherlock entered the crime scene at Lauriston Gardens being followed by a short, stout fellow walking along with what appeared to be one of the most painful limps Greg had seen.

“Who’s this?” Greg asked, at least wanting to know the names of every commoner he was illegally allowing onto the scene.

“He’s with me,” Sherlock replied curtly, taking off his leather gloves.

“But who is he?” Greg repeated, with a twinge of curiosity in his voice.

“I said he’s with me.” Sherlock repeated.

“Aren’t you going to put one on?” the short fellow asked Sherlock.

Sherlock gave the short fellow a glare before turning back to Lestrade. “Where are we?”

“Upstairs,” Greg answered.

…

Greg would discover the next day that the short fellow, Dr. John Watson, had actually decided to move in with the bloke called Sherlock Holmes. Having read the blog entry on the case dubbed “A Study in Pink,” Greg understood that Sherlock, for once, had taken his advice and had let someone into his life. And given how well that this John Watson fellow had integrated himself into Sherlock’s life, Greg had a feeling that there was now one more person in the sea of imbeciles who could hold Sherlock’s trust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just like to take the time for a couple of announcements:  
> 1\. Yes, I actually used actual lines from the show in the Lauriston Gardens scene. You can find a full transcript of the scene here: http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43794.html  
> I do not own this lines. I just used them, and I also elaborated on some of them. 
> 
> 2\. Suicide is NEVER the answer. If you or someone you know is feeling suicidal, please call a local suicide hotline. The counselors and volunteers who answer calls on these hotlines are trained to help with these situations. If someone you know is in immediate danger, please call your local emergency authorities. The suicide hotline for the United States is 1-800-273-TALK (8255). You can find a list of international suicide hotlines here: http://www.suicide.org/international-suicide-hotlines.html
> 
> Thank you. Have a great day, and be safe. (My apologies for screwing up and keeping the note that was below this one. That only applied to the last chapter.)


End file.
